A Certain Darkness
by thexdarkestxnightsx
Summary: A young intern psychologist at Arkham notices something off about the mysterious, alluring Dr. Crane. Very dark, but lemons. Involves violence and deals with addiction and an unhealthy relationship. I don't own any DC characters, including Dr. Crane.
1. Introductions

Eyes still closed, I stumbled out of bed and slammed my hand down on the alarm clock, which promptly stopped its insufferable beeping. I pulled a crisp, white button down shirt off of its hanger and buttoned it up until only the first four or five buttons remained undone. I rubbed my eyes vigorously, removing any sleepies that were there, and looked into the mirror on the back of my bedroom door. My deep auburn hair framed my face in a wild and untamed fashion, not unlike the mane of a lion. I tried brushing through it as best I could, and with the help of some hair product and a lot of patience, I managed to tame the long tresses into a sleek, wavy style. I pulled on my black suit jacket and flared trousers, brushed my teeth, and put on some very light make-up. Today was my first day of interning at Arkham Asylum under the noted psychologist, Dr. Johnathan Crane. To say I was excited was a gross understatement; I was looking forward to helping Dr. Crane in his research and getting some hands-on experience working with the criminally insane, a career path that had always held an interest for me since I was very young.

I slung my black messenger bag over my shoulder, grabbed an apple, my keys, and left my apartment. I walked briskly to my car, and started out on the relatively short drive to Arkham.

Once I arrived, I checked in with the receptionist, a rather trashy thirtysomething with blue eye make-up and a shirt several sizes too small, who lead me down a hallway to Dr. Crane's office. It was fairly quiet on the floor, and I figured patients were either kept in soundproof cells or were on a different floor.

The receptionist knocked rather obnoxiously on the door, and a voice from within said "Come in," in a clipped, annoyed tone. The door opened to reveal a generic psychologist's office: a large mahogany desk, two leather chairs on my side, bookcases filled with volumes of psychological essays, and posters of noted psychologists. Dr. Crane sat on a high-backed leather chair, several files open in front of him. He was leaning back slightly while fiddling with a digital recorder in his lap.

I could not deny that his man was extremely attractive. His eyes were ice-blue, piercing and beautiful, set above high cheekbones on a soft, feminine face. His brown hair was brushed back, but long enough that it curled slightly at the ends and fell over his forehead, giving it a slightly tousled look. His full lips were a slightly darker shade of pink than the rest of his face, and they stood out because of his paleness. He gestured for me to have a seat across from him, and I sat down, nervously twisting the strap of my bag around my hands. At this closer proximity, I could see very small lines under his eyes, giving him a tired, worn expression. He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile and we began the preliminary interviewing.

"It says that you are currently in the graduate program for psychology at Gotham University, but completed your undergraduate work..." he trailed off, looking at me expectantly.

"Oh, I uh, that is I went to college at Stanford before moving to Gotham," I spluttered, cursing myself for being so flustered just because I found him attractive. _I'm a professional woman, for God's sake_, I chided myself, _I need to get myself together_.

"Ah, Stanford. Well that certainly does reflect the intelligence I look for in prospective interns. Here at Arkham, we put much emphasis on the application of existing concepts in psychology to develop more cutting-edge way of dealing with some of the, ah, _unique_ problems some of our patients here exhibit," he replied.

His voice was cold and detached in such a way that it seemed he was thinking about something else, and not paying attention to the conversation at hand. I wasn't insulted by this, after all he was the head psychologist at an insane asylum, and that must put tremendous stress on an individual.

"I see, and what does the position of intern entail? I was given a brief overview of it by your... receptionist, but I would like to gain a clearer picture of the job from the person who is overseeing it. I understand that you are researching fear, and its effects on the human mind," I said, hoping that my knowledge of his current research would make up for my crippling awkwardness overall.

He was looking past me, and it seemed he was listening to something, and I strained my ears but heard nothing. I waited politely for a few moments, and then inquired softly, "Dr. Crane? Did you hear what I just said?"

My voice seemed to being him out of whatever just occurred. He shook himself slightly and looked at my apologetically. "I'm sorry, Ms...-"

"Duval. Juliette Duval," I filled in.

"Ms. Duval. I apologize. I'm usually not this distracted, it's just my research, managing this facility, and... other factors have my mind elsewhere. It's utterly unprofessional of me. Please, what was it you were asking me?"

He looked strained, and nervous, as if he almost said something he didn't mean to reveal.I was happy for my background in psychology; Dr. Crane's impassive exterior would fool almost any other person, but to a more well-trained eye, it was apparent this man had something bothering him.

"It's completely fine, Dr. Crane, the stresses of managing such a large and reputable facility takes its toll on the mind," I said pointedly.

I hoped he didn't think I was being too forward. In my head, a checklist was running itself against my observations, trying to diagnose and identify the problems of my fellow psychologist. I mentally slowed the list, reprimanding myself. This man was my superior; the only reason I was finding issues was because I was looking for them. That isn't to say there was something off about him; I was simply looking for a way to distract myself from the intense feelings of attraction this man was stirring up inside me.

"Since you seem to have no other inquiries," he began after a few moments of silence, "I'll brief you very quickly on what I'm researching, since I am sure you're already somewhat familiar with my work. I am currently researching fear and the psychology behind it. I strive to understand what fear is in its basest sense, and why it can drive even the most sane people over the cliff of insanity."

"That sounds fascinating," I replied somewhat unsteadily. His voice had changed almost imperceptibly; it had been deeper, more intense, almost searching. His eyes made me feel as though I was one of his patients. They were darker, piercing, and intimidating. I held his stare for as long as I could. He looked as though he wanted to ask me something, but instead held back. He politely dismissed me, assigning me to mundane, clerical tasks until he could introduce me to his research specifically.

That night, I turned in my bed, the sheets trapping my legs. This man was utterly confusing, but there was also something very interesting about him. After I had gotten home, I did some more research on Dr. Crane, to find out exactly who this man was. I found that he used to teach at a university, but resigned after he was found experimenting on students with regard to his fear research. This was unexpected. Dr. Crane seemed to be a cool and collected, albeit distracted man. There was just something peculiar about him, something I couldn't quite place. It was just off, like when I dealt with some of my first mentally disturbed patients who were beyond just depression or bipolar disorder.

There was something very dark, very deeply attractive about him. I don't just mean his looks; I sensed a darkness in his mind, one that I found frightening and very alluring at the same time.

My dreams were broken, hazy half-memories of his face. I woke up with a sweet, demanding throbbing in between my legs, but brushed it off, as I needed to be at the asylum on time.


	2. The Descent into Madness

The next few weeks had me copying notes, transcribing Dr. Crane's sessions, and basically doing more clerical work. I occasionally would assist with some of his own personal research, but that was a rare occurrence, and I got the impression that he did not fully trust me. Dr. Crane kept up an aura of perfect, somewhat detached professionalism the entire time, which is why I was thrown off guard when he burst into his office with a frantic look in his eyes.

I looked up from the computer screen and inquired, "Dr. Crane, is everything alright?"

His eyes finally focused on me, and they were filled with an enthusiasm and intensity I had not seen before. He walked around the desk and sat in a chair next to mine. He looked torn, like he was fighting a small inner battle, and after a moment's more hesitation, he came out with, "What scares you, Ms. Duval? What makes your pupils dilate, your breathing become shortened and difficult? What makes the adrenaline pump through your veins?"

At this question, a thrill went down my spine, as those reactions are also commonly associated with sexual arousal, a connection I was sorely tempted to point out were Dr. Crane not so... wild. He looked on edge, almost out of control. Warning signs went off; he was not in his right mind. His demeanor had changed; he was different. After I hesitated for a few moments, he reached across the space between us and grabbed my arms and shook me slightly.

"Juliette, what scares you? It's very important I know. I could be at a breakthrough in my research! When do you feel fear?"

I searched my mind desperately for an answer so he wouldn't manhandle me anymore. There was a thrill going through me at his touch, and I was excited and even a little frightened right now.

Without waiting for an answer, he exclaimed, "You're feeling fear right now, Juliette. I can see it in your eyes, darting around the room, looking at me. You've tensed up." To prove this last point, he dug his fingers into my arms, which caused me to wince slightly and try to draw away. "See?" Dr. Crane exclaimed, "You're scared of me. I can feel your fear. I need you to come to the therapy room in the basement immediately," he demanded breathlessly.

"Dr. Crane, what is the meaning of all this?" I asked, slightly irritated at him manhandling me so roughly. He was guiding me not so gently to one of the large elevators at the end of the hall. Once we were inside, he childishly mashed on the basement button until the doors closed and the elevator lurched downward.

I looked over at him, and he was staring at me in a way that excited me and also scared me. It was almost hungry, but also searching and maybe even slightly alarmed at his own behaviour. He seemed to relish in my fear, my trepidation, the way my body was pressed against the wall, pulling gently against his hand on my arm, which would most likely leave a bruise. Somehow I sensed I was in danger; this wasn't the last bruise I would receive at the hands of Johnathan Crane.

"Dr. Crane, you know I am not a patient, right? I am fully in control of my own mental faculties."

"Yes," he replied in that intense, husky voice he had used earlier, "and that is why it's important you see this."

Fear, irrational and extremely unwelcome in the face of a wild, fear-searching psychiatrist, began to tug at my mind. He looked away from me and at the dial that showed the current floor. It said 2. "Dr. Crane," I asked hesitantly, "are you on any medication? Did you take anything?"

He whirled around to face me, his beautiful features distorted in excessive anger. "What?" he yelled, pushing me against the wall on the other side of the elevator, his body following, pinning me against the wall. "Do you think I'm CRAZY, Juliette? Is THAT what's bothering you? Huh? Because we can show you just how crazy we are."

The promise, or threat, or whatever it was hung heavy in the air as he stared at me. I looked into his wild, frenzied eyes. They were different; they had darkened over even more so. He was no longer the professional, respectful, somewhat detached man I had known for the past few months. Something suddenly clicked in my mind. The psychological training I had had kicked in. I steadied my breathing and raised my hands to rest on his chest, and tried to push him gently off of me, but he didn't budge.

"Johnathan, is this you? Are you still Johnathan Crane?"

He laughed, a slow, maniacal laugh that made my skin crawl. "Now you've caught on, sweetheart," he growled, "I'm Scarecrow. We're just going to use you in a little experiment of ours. Be nice, and I will too." His hands ran down from my shoulders, brushing lightly over my breasts, one coming to rest on my side, and the other on my hip, pinning the bottom half of me to the wall. He licked his lips and leered at me. I moved my head to the side and wriggled under his grasp, trying to break free, but it occurred to me that struggling was probably exciting him more. This knowledge, combined with the intimate closeness... Scarecrow and I shared caused a warm feeling to blossom in my lower belly and make its way between my legs. I was outraged at this, at myself, at him.

I could feel his breath, hot and harsh, against my neck, making my breath hitch and making goosebumps appear on the sensitive skin of my throat. I shouldn't be handled this way; he is insane and is probably going to hurt me, and I'm becoming aroused? I wildly began to question my own sanity as the elevator hit the basement.

With a hungry look, he broke away from me rather roughly. My body felt cold at the loss of his closeness, which only incensed me more. My cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

He pried the door open, reached back and grabbed me by the shoulders, pushing me in front of him. He wheeled me through a long hallway, into a dingy cell that looked relatively unoccupied. There was a mattress on the floor, and a table with a small chair. In the middle of the room lay a gurney. He roughly pushed me back onto it, and for a moment I thought I would be raped. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, making me see and experience everything more intensely. What exactly did he have in mind for me?

**A/N: Please R&R, I need something to go on! :)**

***As of July 24, 2011, I've taken down Chapter 3 so I can work on it to make it better. Sorry for the wait!***


	3. Terror

He strapped a leather restraint around my waist. When I reached my hands to it, he slapped me hard across the face, making me whimper slightly in shock. I looked at him, openmouthed, blood seeping from my split lip.

"Behave, Ms. Duval, please, and I won't hurt you or restrain you further." It was Dr. Crane again. He began fiddling with various things on an operating table next to me while he explained what he was doing in a rushed, soft tone.

"I've manufactured a toxin that causes the person to feel pure fear. It is terror in a concentrated, medical form. I've tested it on the patients here, but I need a sane person to observe the effect of the toxin on a balanced mind."

I sat for a moment to let the gravity of the situation sink in. I was restrained by a psychiatrist who had just manufactured liquid terror, and whose other personality had it out for me. I had no idea what to do. I fell limp against the gurney, slightly frustrated. "Why me, Dr. Crane? There's a whole city out there."

"Well," he said, charging an aerosol can, "you walked right into my hands. You know about fear, like me, and I want to see how far I can push you until you break." He smiled in a cool, calm, and terrifying way, thoroughly enjoying my wide-eyed reaction at his remark. I grew angry and glared up at him.

In the simplest terms, this was not fair. I cannot believe that out of all the people in Gotham Dr. Crane chose me, Juliette Duval, to test a fear toxin on. This is ridiculous. My personal resolve grew as I decided not to give into this madman's demands.

"You really think that you can break me, Dr. Crane? Is this how you get your kicks? Do you ENJOY doing this to people? Making them so frightened they go INSANE?" I tried to calm myself before I pushed him too far, realizing just how dangerous this man was. However, my pride and something else, something darker, pushed me on. I continued in a low, dangerous tone, "Do their screams turn you on? Do you like seeing them struggle? The fear in their eyes, the sweat pouring off of them, does it make you hard, Dr. Crane? Hmm?"

Shit. I had hit a nerve. He looked at me and yelled as he hit me on the side of the head at full force. "You want to scream, you bitch, then I will MAKE you scream!" he cackled in a deep, husky voice, and sprayed some sort of gas in my face. I began coughing and struggling. I blinked, and he was distorted. Everything in the room was. The walls began closing in. His voice was deeper and demonic. "Scared now, Juliette?" I began breathing heavily and perspiring as a horde of bugs came out of the walls, crawling over me as his eyes glowed an evil red.

Calm down, I thought to myself. Conrtol your breathing. Don't scream. It's a hallucinogen. This isn't real. It was becoming difficult for me to discern reality from my hallucinations as he began to speak in the calm voice of a psychiatrist observing a patient.

"There is a much milder toxin I had tested on myself, one that isn't a hallucinogen, but it didn't quite fit my purposes. Your pupils are dilated and you're perspiring. What do you see? How scared are you?"

I looked up to meet his red, burning eyes. They were staring straight into me. It was unnerving. I knew I had to keep my cool and not incense him any further, but still find a way to get the antidote. I wasn't thinking clearly as I brought my hands up to my face in an attempt to block out his searing eyes. The self-control I had once stuck to so strongly was slipping away from me, receding into the background as fear, pure and stronger than any feeling I have ever felt. It was too much. My senses went into overload and I began to hyperventilate. I was relinquishing my hard-fought control against the relentless terror the toxin brought.

"WHY AREN'T YOU SCREAMING?" the Scarecrow bellowed in that demonic tone. "YOU'RE TERRIFIED! SCREAM, FOR GOD'S SAKE!"

As he yelled, he brought his face closer to mine, magnifying my terror at those terrible eyes. I fought internally for some grip on my sanity, which seemed to be quickly slipping away.

"Are you scared yet, Juliette? What do you see?" His relentless questions were a buzz in the background, a seemingly meaningless string of noises, unintelligible to my deteriorating mind. I tried to form words, to curse him to the end of the Earth; I kept fighting for the power to do something, anything to shield myself from the onslaught of the imaginary bugs. Something lurked in every corner, in every shadow, and those eyes. I felt hands on mine, pulling my nails out of the skin of my arms, which were now bleeding. I flinched at his touch and whimpered, trying to cover my face because I had begun to cry. Tears were distorting my vision even more than it was, making the indiscernible shapes even more intimidating, but as I brought my hands to my face, he grabbed them and pushed them away. "I need to see your reaction," he said, moving to my face and licking a tear from my cheek. I shuddered at the feeling and began to sob. "You're so scared," he almost moaned, and I cringed and begged him, my ability to speak found.

"P-Please, for G-God's sake, Dr. C-Crane, make this s-stop! It's too much; I'm- I'm going to lose my m-mind!" I cried, wanting desperately to hide in a corner and never come out, the fear now wearing down my endurance. I was beginning to crack. It was pushing the limits of my tolerance, and it NEEDED to stop.

"Welcome to the club, dear," he said, and I felt a sharp prick on my inner arm, and everything stopped. The restraint on my waist was undone, and surprisingly strong hands pushed me in a sitting position.

**A/N: Fixed it, I think! It's certainly a lot better than my previous attempt. R&R as usual please! I love feedback. :)**


	4. Conflicted

I sat on the gurney, allowing him to swing my legs over the side and pull me to my feet. Everything seemed so... quiet. I felt so numb, so weak. I was exhausted and bleeding from the self-inflicted wounds on my arms. I lost my balance when he let go of me and fell against him, his arms going encircling me to hold me up straight. He guided me steadily to a wooden chair in the corner of the room. I sat, slouched against the back, staring into space.

He left and went over to the table, facing away from me. To be honest, I didn't know what to think. I had never felt so terrified in my life, so out of control. I prided myself on my self-control. I didn't even consume alcohol for fear of losing control of myself. I always knew what to say, what to do. But now all I felt was empty. The experience had drained me so completely I hardly knew what was going on.

Dr. Crane moved back toward me with several things in his hands. He knelt so our faces were level, and brought his hands up to my arms. I flinched away violently, and a flash of terror crossed my mind as I thought he was going to poison me again. I brought my hands up to my face and moaned pitifully, "Dr. Crane, please for God's sake, no more, I can't even..." I trailed off, tears streaking down my face.

"Shh, shh, Juliette, I'm not trying to poison you. You cut yourself and I'm attempting to clean off the wounds. There's no poison," he said patronizingly, as one might say to a child who claimed to have seen a monster under the bed. "Now, it is important that you tell me how the toxin affected you. What did you see? Why were you so terrified?"

I looked at him defiantly, not having enough energy to glare. "You just poisoned me, you bastard, why would I help you further your research? I thought you were doing research, not injecting mental patients with a toxin that almost made a sane person lose their mind! What kind of psychiatrist are you?"

My voice was quiet, and cracked, but it was filled with a quiet fury that sounded slightly impressive to me, due to the situation. He looked up from bandaging my wounds and pressed his thumb hard into the deep scratches, making me start and try to pull away from him, whimpering in pain. "What the-"

"Ms. Duval, I am an accomplished psychiatrist, and as long as no one makes anyone think otherwise, I'll continue my experiments," he cut across my coldly. "Now, I think it best you answer my questions. I can only be so patient, and I cannot say the same of Scarecrow. His methods are much more... savage." His voice dropped and his eyes darkened on the last word, and I pushed myself rather painfully into the back of the chair, wishing I could recede into the wall.

"I was scared. It was paralyzing. There were loud, grating noises, screaming, and lots of bugs. The walls were closing in, and there was something there..." I trailed off, looking away from his eyes, bright with curiosity. I shuddered violently, remembering, the memories coming in vivid flashes in my mind's eye. I felt echoes of the terror, the paranoia.

He brought his hand to my chin and applying pressure made me look at him. He leaned closer, his eyes dark. "What was there? What made you so terrified? I can see it in your eyes..." he trailed off brushing a tear from my cheek and bringing his finger to his mouth. I was slightly disgusted by the sadistic pleasure he was taking in this. He seemed almost aroused by my confession of terror.

"I... I don't know what was there. It was more just this feeling of being out of control, of foreboding, not knowing what was threatening me," I said honestly, all emotion gone from my tired voice. I was trying not to dwell on the thoughts, afraid of triggering the vivid flashes of memory.

He moved away slightly; I hadn't realized how close he had been, and sat back on his haunches, looking at me thoughtfully, analytically. I felt humiliated, violated, letting someone drug me and then see me in that pitiful state.

He suddenly leaned closer and in the grating voice of the Scarecrow, he huskily asked, "Did I scare you? Were you afraid of me?"

"No, you were just distorted like everything else in the room. I was more angry at you for poisoning me and hurting me than anything," I answered, aware of the eager tone in his question, but choosing to ignore it. I didn't have enough energy to lie.

He grabbed my shoulder roughly, startling me, and suddenly I was pushed against the wall, his body flush against mine. I felt his hardness against me, evidence of his sick, twisted reaction to my fear.

"Do you forget that it was I who made that fucking toxin? I who am much stronger than you, who could _break you_ with a flick of my hand. I have nothing to lose, sweetheart, and you should do well to remember that. I have more of the toxin, and I'll be honest. I plan to test it on you, play with you, torture you from within your own mind. I will bend you and twist you until you break, and I will make you fear me," he growled, low and intense.

As if to prove this point, he pushed me harder against the wall, digging my shoulder blades into it painfully, my already aching body tensed again against any physical violence he was going to inflict upon me. I twisted my face away from his, trembling, waiting for him to strike. But nothing.

Instead, I felt his hands close over my wrists, bringing them up over my head. I looked away from him, ashamed, as my mind went back to the time in the elevator, his closeness, practically grinding against me. I felt the warmth of arousal thrill through me. He squeezed my wrists hard enough for them to bruise. He moved his face closer to me, so close that I could feel his lips brush against my neck as he asked huskily, "Are you scared now, Juliette?"

The contrast between the cool clamminess of my skin and his hot breath made me shiver against him involuntarily. He moaned, a low, threatening sound that went straight to the base of my spine. I was angry at this... _monster _for being able to arouse me after he had taken me, poisoned me, tortured me. A sharp pain in my neck from his teeth made me cry out as he moved his face away to look into my eyes. "Well?"

Ashamed, I looked away and whispered, defeated, "Yes."

He moaned softly, "Now that's what I like to hear."

I closed my eyes against whatever violence would follow. This man was so unpredictable, I couldn't tell whether he was going to hit me, or kiss me. Instead, as suddenly as it happened, my body was left unsupported against the wall when he abruptly moved away. I weakly slid down the wall, curling into myself.

I looked up, and saw him across the room, cleaning his glasses on the bottom of his shirt. "Ms. Duval, as I'm sure you understand, I cannot simply let you walk out of here. You are a valuable asset to my research and I can't exactly allow you to try and run away, yes?"

I didn't reply. I looked down at the stone floor angrily. How dare he lock me up like some slave? I wasn't some sort of _test material_, I am a living, breathing individual with feelings, the darkest of which he's already brought out and seen.

I heard the door close and the lights turned off, plunging the room in darkness.

I sat on the floor numbly, letting my mind wander, which I quickly found out was a bad idea as my ordeal, my hallucinations, the residual feelings flashed through me rapidly, making me feel only a fraction of the fear I felt while I was high on the toxin. I was stripped so bare, so vulnerable to my own weakness, my fears. I had been consumed by them; it had seemed my terror was liquid, rushing through my veins with Crane's toxin, mixed with my own adrenaline. The combination had proved almost devastating. Insanity seemed to have been a welcome reprieve from the mindless terror I had felt.

Thoughts floated through my head that I quickly pushed down deep into my mind, not wanting to hear them. I had never felt so _alive_, so _reckless_ with my fear. I had had nothing to lose in those moments of insanity; I had already faced the worst.

_I had never felt so alive. And I liked the feeling._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Not as action-packed as the others, but I feel like Juliette needed some down time to think about what happened to her.  
><strong>**As usual, please R&R politely. Feedback makes me a better writer.  
>Smut will occur later, but I'm not sure when, as this story seems to have taken on a mind of its own. <strong>


	5. Reflections in Captivity

I didn't know for how long I sat there, or how long he left me there. It had to have been more than one day. I was starving, and thirsty, and I had slept for an indeterminable amount of time. I didn't really know, though. There were no windows; I could've slept for seconds or days. Crane came in a few times, in different outfits, which made me think it had been more than one day. My mind was in a fog; I think he was drugging me with some sort of sedative. The times when he was there were terrible, and his bad days were taken out on me with brute force. My body looked like one huge bruise, and it was my fault, because I had been foolish enough to try and fight back. By now, though, I'd learned it isn't worth fighting against him. He wouldn't let Scarecrow at me as long as I behaved. The time I was there was a haze of fear, toxin, Crane, and the silence of my isolation.

My mind was just a swirling mess of everything that had happened to me. I tried combing through the events that occurred before Crane kidnapped me, looking in vain for some indicator of his desire to use me as a test subject.

Even more alarming were the feelings I had; the thoughts in my head. They were becoming dangerous-sounding, even to me. I felt reckless, locked in this suspended reality, in the dark, my body tensed like a metal coil, waiting to be let out. I wanted to destroy something. I wanted to destroy something like I had been destroyed, exploited. My deepest fears were thrown in my face with that blasted toxin, and this man, this beautiful, terrible monster had completely broken me.

I remember a time when I didn't feel so numb, a time when the only time I felt alive wasn't determined by a dosage of some drug. I felt like some useless addict, dependent on this terrible toxin to make me feel anything.

My mind had become a dangerous place. Sometimes, I felt terribly sad and depressed for myself, and cried until I was too tired to care when he came in. Sometimes we spoke; mostly about my fears and my life. He wanted to understand why I reacted to his toxin in the way that I did.

I hate to admit it, and it makes me feel ashamed, but I began to sort of take a liking to Dr. Crane. He listened to me when I spoke, he paid perfect attention to my anecdotes when I had them, and if Scarecrow hurt me particularly badly, he'd dress the wounds.

My training in psychology screamed Stockholm Syndrome, but I paid no attention. I knew what this man was; he was a complete monster, twisted by his addiction to fear, bent by his other persona. I saw it, his inner struggle, taking place in front of me day after day. Scarecrow had begun to take him over more and more, and each time it seemed as though the two parts of him bled into each other to the point where it had become almost impossible to discern one from the other. In a way, it helped me; Scarecrow wasn't as violent or intense as he had been, but now Jonathan was more sadistic and cruel. They became almost one.

I think he knew how I felt; my recklessness, my feelings towards him, even my addiction to his toxin.

Slowly, he began to trust me more, let me go out into Arkham and work on cases and things of that nature because he knew I wouldn't leave. Knew I could not leave, even if I wanted to. I needed the drug to make me feel alive, to make me feel like I was connected in some way to this stark, grey world around me and not just a pointless echo of something I once was. He'd destroyed me, but I felt no hatred towards him.

Because now he was the only one who could understand me.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hey everyone, I'm so sorry it took so long. I had terrible writer's block, as well as a lot going on, as you can probably tell from this chapter, which is short (I know), and reflective. I just wanted everyone to understand how she was feeling and lay the groundwork for a relationship to develop between the two of them. I'll focus on Crane next chapter, seeing as the timeline of this story is working out to be during _Batman Begins, _while Crane is working for Ra's Al Ghul and planning Fear Night. I'm shooting for the next update to be sometime in the next week or two, depending on my level of internet access. Thanks for sticking with Juliette and me!  
>Concrit helps and I love hearing from everyone! <strong>


	6. Provocation

"Have you ever tested it on yourself?"

"What?" Dr. Crane asked, looking up from some files he had been focusing on quite intensely for some time now.

He came down to my cell more often now, sometimes to just do work, claiming he needed to observe me for any adverse effects the toxin may have on a person in the long term. I think he came down because I was the only person he could speak honestly to about his research and his love of fear.

It seemed as though he was attached to me as well.

"Have you ever tested your toxin on yourself?"

He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, considering his words before he said them. "Yes, in an extremely diluted form. I have to be able to record my reactions to the toxin and I need to know the specifics of what the toxin evokes."

"For purely research purposes or because you liked feeling fear?" I asked, feeling slightly bolder than normal.

His expression darkened slightly. "I don't wish to feel fear; I wish to inflict it on others so that I may study it."

"And because you like seeing people when they are terrified and at your mercy," I said nonchalantly. I remember before I was poisoned the first time, that he had treated me roughly after I accused him of becoming aroused at people's reaction to fear, and his toxin.

His eyes pierced mine with a borderline dangerous intensity.

Ignoring the warning bells that were going off in the increasingly more quiet, rational part of my head, and his growing displeasure of the topic of conversation, I continued. "You do what you do not only because you like fear, you need to see people when they're terrified. Of course, you're interested in it from a scientific standpoint, and that's probably how it started. But now, you've become obsessed with it."

His knuckles were white as he gripped the sides of the table. I saw his eyes cloud over and darken, changing. He was struggling for control, not to give into the anger and his other, more violent persona. I don't really know why I was provoking him. I didn't want to be hurt, or poisoned. I think. It had been over a week since I'd been last poisoned, since he last hurt me, touched me. I think the darker, numbed part of me awakened by the toxin had started to become restless. I needed something to go on, some _feeling._ Anything, any contact, even if it was a slap or his body pinning mine to the floor.

I'd become something disgusting; a pitiful excuse for who I once was. I despised my vulnerability, my addiction to it, to _him._

Still, as I watched Scarecrow fight Dr. Crane for control, I continued. "You need the control; you like it. You get off on it, seeing people completely vulnerable and helpless at your hands. You like manipulating them, bending their minds until they snap. I think that's why-"

Before I knew what was happening, he was looming over me, normally bright blue eyes dark and angry. His thin, lithe form looked more intimidating at this angle. I could feel his hot breath on my face as he glared down at me.

"Why do you insist on provoking me and tempting me? We were doing fine until you had to open your fucking mouth," he snarled, his hand gripping my throat. He applied pressure; not enough to totally cut my air supply off, but enough to let me know he would if he had to.

"I don't know," I rasped, ragged breaths punctuating the words. "Why did you get so angry? Was I right?" I felt dangerous again, reckless. Part of me wanted to cover my own mouth, to shut me up. But another part, the stronger, more dominant part, reveled in the recklessness, the danger. He could and _would_ kill me, if he felt like it.

His eyes widened at my audacity, and once again, before I knew what was happening, I was suddenly crushed, pinned between his body and the cold, stone wall. My head bounced off the stone rather painfully, and by the time I recovered, his hands were gripping my throat, almost lifting me off of my feet. I panicked. My eyes were wide as they could be, and I was sure my pupils were blown out with fear. My hands tore feebly at his on my throat. He brought his face close to mine. Our noses were practically touching.

"You seem to have forgotten your manners, Juliette. It's very rude to judge people without knowing anything about them, and it's even more dangerous to provoke someone as dangerous as Scarecrow," he growled, pushing even harder against my throat. My eyes rolled back, and my vision swam, my mind fuzzy. I struggled weakly, twitching.

"You also forget," Scarecrow continued, releasing his grip on my throat just enough so I could get some air and not pass out, "who holds the power here. I have the toxin, and I possess the keys to your deepest fears. I'd be careful about what you said and who you choose to mouth off to, from now on," he finished, dropping me. Suddenly, I was alone on the floor, and he walked back over to the table, back to his files, as if none of it had ever happened.

I gingerly inspected the back of my head, finding a tiny knot. My hand came back slightly wet. I was completely unaffected by the blood on my hand as I absent-mindedly wiped it on my already bloodstained shirt. Some buttons were missing, and it looked like it had gone through hell. My hands moved to my throat, stroking, gently prodding to see if it hurt. It still did. I was almost sure it was bruised. I closed my eyes and pushed harder on my neck, relishing the pain, needing it, remembering his hands there, his body so close to mine.

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><p><strong>AN: So, there it is. I know I said two weeks, but this just came to me and I decided to get it down before I forgot. My original piece was longer than this, but I cut it off so this chapter wasn't too long. Don't hate me; that means the next chapter is already in the works. **

**_Please_ R&R, I want to know what you all think and if you still like it! **


	7. Addiction

I opened my eyes to find Dr. Crane standing over me again. It seemed as though he was Dr. Crane again, his demeanor much more relaxed, less intimidating. Regardless, I still flinched away as his hands reached for me. He gripped my arms, pulling me up on my feet. He looked at my throat, frowning slightly.

"I'm sorry," he said, his hands ghosting over the bruise. There was no sympathy or sincerity in the apology. "You brought it upon yourself, though, provoking me like that. Are you alright?"

Still, there was no ounce of concern in his voice. He didn't put on the kind psychiatrist persona for me anymore; there was no point in faking. I shivered slightly under his touch, his cool fingers making the bruised skin tingle.

I opened my mouth to answer him, but no sound came out. He frowned again, and I cleared my throat, and immediately winced. It felt like he made me swallow crushed glass.

"I'm fine," I whispered, reluctantly moving away from him, backing into the wall. I needed to put space between him and me. I was afraid he would hurt me again, and while I felt before that I needed the pain, my weak, raspy, barely-there voice brought me briefly back to sanity.

He looked at me, analyzing me. After awhile, he asked softly, "Why did you do that? Made me so angry I hurt you like that? I could have killed you, you know," he said, almost like he granted me some favour by not strangling me.

I thought for a minute, not sure how to answer. Before I stopped them, words came from my wasted throat, "I don't know. I needed to feel something."

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "You what?"

"I don't know," I rasped, my voice a little stronger this time, but still as painful. "I couldn't stop myself. I knew you were angry with me for provoking you, but I couldn't stop. I just kept talking."

I stopped myself before I could reveal my true, pathetic nature.

He looked at me with slight disbelief. "You purposely provoked me because you were feeling chatty?" he asked condescendingly. His lips curled into a derisive smile. "You wanted that pain," he said softly, coming closer, his eyes dark again. "You needed it," he whispered cruelly, his voice deeper. His hand twisted in my hair, brushing against the lump there, sending little jolts of pain through my head.

"Am I right?" he whispered, and I felt his breath ghost across my skin. "I want to hear you admit it to me."

I looked away from those captivating eyes, ashamed of myself. I was ashamed of what my life, what I have become, this wanting shell, a junkie, like the people in the shadows I'd avoided all my life. I was pitiful. He was asking me to relinquish the last part of me that I still possessed, my pride, or the shreds of dignity that remained. After this, I'd be completely his. He'll have actually broken me.

I forced my eyes to meet his, swallowing the lump that suddenly was blocking my throat, willing the tears shining on my eyes not to fall.

"I need you," I admitted to him, and to me, my voice barely a whisper but sounding so loud to me.

There was a pause, and his lips curved into an almost-smile, and then his lips crashed into mine with bruising force. My eyes widened in shock; that definitely hadn't been what I was expecting. His grip tightened in my hair and I ignored the pain, focusing on the closeness of his body, the feel of his lips on mine. I submitted myself to him, opening up to the kiss, opening my mouth when his tongue demanded access. He explored my mouth roughly, his other hand possessively curving around my waist, pushing me harder against the wall.

I should have hated myself for kissing back, for enjoying this, but I didn't. In some weird way, it's what I needed, just like the violence and the toxin.

Our embrace grew more intense, my hands threaded in his hair as he trailed kisses and rough bites along my jaw and down my already-bruised neck, making me cry out in pain and pleasure. Both of his hands came to rest on my hips, and I ground into him impatiently, wanting more, needing more than this.

He responded by making a noise like a growl at the back of his throat, and he began trying to unbutton my shirt, and impatiently tearing it in the process, the buttons clacking on the floor. He tore the remainder of the ruined blouse off of my body and throwing it somewhere in the room. My hands clumsily loosened his tie and beginning to unbutton his shirt, but my hands were shaking too badly, and I was too distracted as he devoured the newly-exposed skin, sending waves of pleasure through me.

I switched from the daunting task of buttons to fumbling briefly with his belt, and once it was undone, I undid his fly. My hands brushed against his erection by accident, and his hips bucking into my touch, and his lips claimed mine again, his hands running all over me, sending shivers through my body. I impatiently pulled his pants down, the desire for him becoming too much. I was throbbing and wet and I needed him now. He kicked them off and roughly grabbed me and practically threw me to the ground.

Before I could register the change in position, he was on top of me, his lips everywhere at once, making me moan under his ministrations. He leaned up to unbutton my pants and yank them down and off of my legs. His normally impeccable self-control was beginning to show cracks; his hands shook slightly and his pupils were blown out with lust.

He leaned back down and captured my lips with his again, lining himself up and thrusting into me rather roughly. I cried out and he let out a deep moan of satisfaction as he began moving inside me. It felt so good, right on the border where pleasure turn to pain. My hands were scratching up and down his back roughly, making him flinch at the pain. He grabbed my arms and held my wrists above my head as he continued thrusting. The shift of his body made him hit something deep inside me, and I practically saw stars, screaming out his name as he thrust harder, hitting the area again and again.

I couldn't hold on much longer, it felt too good. His movements became choppy, losing rhythm. His breathing became more ragged and I could tell he was on the edge, too. I rolled my hips against his over and over, trying to match thrust for thrust as blinding, white-hot pleasure ripped through me, making me cry out over and over, my screams of pleasure echoing off the walls just as my screams of fear and pain had done so many other times.

With a low growl of my name, he thrust up hard one last time, rolling off of me almost immediately so as not to crush me under his weight.

I sat up, leaning against the wall, bringing my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. It was cold in the room and I felt strangely hollow, empty. It was a different feeling than what I'd experienced without the toxin, but bringing the same sort of melancholy shame I felt at my dependence on this man.

I looked up from the ground to see Dr. Crane pulling his clothes on, smoothing his shirt and tightening his tie, brushing off his jacket as though he wanted to wipe away all evidence that he'd been with me. This made me feel strangely upset.

I'd been in emotionless relationships before, and the quick exit after sex had never bothered me before. I usually did the same as the other men, trying to scrub off all traces of our encounter under the spray of hot water. But this time, I felt even more alone than I had before, his warmth missed by me as though it had some significance, like I had felt anything other than lust and desire for this man. And that's all it was. I needed him for the toxin, for the rush of adrenaline, for the pain. I was addicted to those things.

Wordlessly, he stood over me and dropped a syringe full of liquid into my lap. I picked it up, recognizing the bluish liquid as the mild dose of toxin. As he turned to leave, he said quietly, "That should keep you until I come back to test the new prototype I've been working on."

I looked up, almost desperate to see his eyes, absent of any emotion though they were, on me again. All I saw was the door close behind him.

I picked up the syringe and plunged the needle into the soft flesh of my inner arm, bracing against the pain, and waiting for the rush to begin.

As my breathing picked up and the room started to blur, I thought to myself, _I'm addicted to this. To the fear and the pain. Not him. No, definitely not him._

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><p><strong>AN: It's finally here, after all this time! Sorry for the long wait! From now on, I'll be updating about every two weeks, so keep your eyes open :) Thanks especially to MadPilot, BlueBell, and ninjapoke for reviewing consistently; your input is much appreciated! In As Much, your review was very useful to me as a writer and I plan to work on those areas you mentioned.**

**Thanks for everyone who has stayed with this story despite my absenteeism recently, especially to all my reviewers! **

**Remember: R&R, concrit appreciated, and I listen to suggestions, so if you've got 'em, give 'em! :)**


	8. Plans

The next few days bled into one another. I blacked out periodically for indeterminable amounts of time. My clothes had been ruined, and after I had woken up at some point, I found plain white garments; the patients' garb. I laughed bitterly at the irony. The nuts really DID run the nuthouse, I suppose. The clothing hung off my now gaunt frame; I didn't know how much or how frequently he'd been feeding me, but I assumed the weight loss was from the extreme pressure I had been under for this amount of time.

I began to wonder if anyone out there would notice I was gone. My parents had died a few years ago in a car accident, and I had no siblings or close friends. It was pitiful, really, thinking of my life before all this happened. There were so many things I regretted, things I hadn't done, friends I hadn't made, and places I hadn't seen. I already figured I'd never see the outside of these walls again; how would Jonathan let me out after he'd kept me captive all this time?

I hadn't seen him in awhile, just a few times. My mind was in a haze of sorts; I wasn't sure if he had me on sedatives or other medication besides the fear toxin, but after we'd had sex it seemed he came down here as little as possible and spoke even less.

"Juliette, I need to speak to you about something," he said, shaking me slightly. I sat up, leaning against the wall and rubbing my eyes. I cleared my throat, "What other drugs do you have me on?"

He blinked. "What? Juliette, please focus, this is important."

"I'll listen," I said, the little fire of a fight I still had in me stirring up, "if you tell me what drugs you've put me on."

His gaze hardened. "Look, I know you've been through a lot, so you must be extremely tired, and the toxin leaves you mentally fatigued, so it is a side effect of the toxin. Now I really need you to pay attention," he said, and his tone offered no room for argument.

I rubbed my bleary eyes, trying to focus on his face. Everything seemed blurred; when had I last eaten?

"I have plans for this city," he was saying, his face taking on a new, determined expression, a deep passionate intensity behind his blue eyes, "and you're the only one who I can trust to help me."

I blinked. He trusts me? He's never let me out of this godforsaken room, and he plans to let me help him with plans for the city?

"I don't understand what you're asking of me. What is your plan?"

He looked at me long and hard, his eyes darkening, gripping my shoulders more tightly. I cringed inwardly. What had I done to bring out Scarecrow?

"It's _my_ plan, sweetheart. What I plan to do is run a few... medical trials of my newest dose of the toxin, using a newer, more... _fresh_ control group."

I stared at him with disbelief. He planned to release his toxin on the whole of Gotham City? How the hell was he going to do that?

"So," he continued, "where you come in. I need you to accompany me to the Gotham City Police Gala in a few days. Many of Gotham's finest will be there, and I plan to... incapacitate them before I begin my mass distribution. All you need to do is look pretty and slip the toxin into the drinks at the table. I don't care what you have to do, but while you do this, I'll be getting ready to go out on the town just as the toxin's released into the air."

I considered the plan for a moment. "Does this mean I get to go free?"

He laughed darkly. "My darling, you're free to run away as fast as you can after your job's been done, but there will be no safe place to run to! Gotham will destroy itself in a terrified panic!" He looked absolutely ecstatic.

I weighed my options. I distrusted his word on letting me go, but it was my only chance at freedom.

"Alright," I said quietly, "I'll help you."

He smiled; it was the closest thing to a genuine smile I had ever seen on his face. "That's my Juliette," he said, and unexpectedly brought his lips to mine in a brief kiss.

I looked down at the floor, willing myself with all my strength not to smile like an idiot, and as I heard the heavy click of the door as it locked, I sat down on the floor, resting my arms on my knees, thinking.

The reality of the situation hadn't really set in yet. I was going to be freed? I knew I should be positively jumping for joy at the prospect of a normal life again, but I couldn't bring myself to feel even the slightest bit of excitement. It was like the numbness that had been creeping over me had finally taken over.

Deep down inside I knew that my life would never again be normal after this ordeal. I'd done more than gotten myself kidnapped; I had let myself foster a connection with this man, this monster. Although, I couldn't really think of him as a monster, even though my near-constant pain and yellowing bruises were all a product of his actions.

I'd gotten addicted to more than his toxin. I'd gotten addicted to him. Did I even _want_ to run away from the only thing that makes me feel alive? The drug? Jonathan?

The action of the day became too much, and my mind swam with images of Jonathan; his eyes, his body, his lips, and a spark of feeling fluttering through me was the last thing I felt before I fell into a dreamless slumber.

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><p><strong>AN: Well there you have it! Not much, I know, but it's sort of a lull between the action. I really wanted to explore Juliette's feelings about Jonathan and her current situation, showing her development of Stockholm Syndrome. **

**Concrit is wonderful, as are reviews. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with it this long; I never even expected it to get like this. :)**

**Suggestions are accepted! **


	9. Need, Want, Love?

"Juliette, Juliette? Wake up. It's time."

A voice swirled in and out of my consciousness, or was I floating in and out of consciousness? I struggled to focus on the words. I registered being pulled from the stone floor into a sitting position, and then there were hands moving my heavy, now very greasy hair from my face. I absently wondered if I had developed dreadlocks by now.

My eyes fluttered open; why was it so hard to focus?

"That last dose might have been a little too much. You almost died." A pause. "Juliette, can you hear me?"

Hands shook me harder, and I made a stronger effort to open my eyes. Light invaded my vision, momentarily blinding me. There were blurs of colour and vague shapes, but nothing was quite discernible yet. I shook my head slightly, and opened my mouth to answer in the affirmative, but all that came out was a gravelly croak.

"Here, drink this. I suppose in my frenzy I wasn't taking the best care of you." I felt something at my lips and a firm hand at the back of my neck, tipping my head back. As soon as the water hit my parched tongue, I came to life, gripping the cup like my life depended on it. Who knew anymore; maybe it did.

I gulped down the contents of the cup in what seemed like record speed. I put it down, and my eyes began adjusting to the bright lights; had they always been this way? I focused in on the face in front of me, recognizing it as Jonathan.

"Thank you," I rasped. "How long have I been out?"

"About three days," he said. "That's all I could risk; the Gala is coming up and I need you in the best of shape. You promised to help me."

"Then why do I feel like I've lost so much time?"

He hesitated, and I felt like I almost caught him about to lie.

"I- well, I've been working on the large batch of new toxin using the new ingredients I've been given, and I was careless in my eagerness to test it, and I must have given you much more than any normal human could handle," he said, sounding almost bored. "You went into cardiac arrest, and then shock. I almost lost you."

I looked at him, struggling to remember. Flashes of a dark room, the sound of my heart beating frantically in my chest, my screams echoing off of stone walls, and a terrifying burlap face hovering over me flooded my thoughts. I shuddered with the memory.

I figured I should have learned to expect this sort of treatment from him, this callous, uncaring lack of emotion he so often displayed, but for some reason tears, actual tears, began running down my face. I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat; I didn't think it wise to begin betraying weakness in front of a man who was so strongly focused on it. Still, the hot tears kept coming.

I looked away from him, ashamed of this display of emotion, angry at him for almost killing me, yet thrilled at his power, his authority, and deliriously happy that he saved me at all. All of this was too much for me; I've been a shell ever since I'd gotten hooked, and the sudden onslaught of emotion was just too much to handle.

Jonathan merely looked on with mild interest. I collapsed suddenly into his arms, as if the weight of this new- found feeling couldn't be supported by my frail frame. I felt strong arms encircle me, and I felt safe. Despite all this man has subjected me to, I feel comforted by his closeness; the sudden proximity of our bodies, without the raw need it had been coupled with before.

I grew self-conscious as my stream of tears began to lessen, and sat up straight, away from him. There was something slightly different about him, some emotion I hadn't even seen before in his eyes. Was it empathy? No, that was impossible. Pity. He pitied me, probably because I'm so fucked up from the drugs and this isolation and his bipolar treatment of me; rough and demanding sex one minute, silent treatment the next, then to test subject, and now to almost concerned.

The sick part of it all was that I couldn't imagine it any other way, and I think that's why he pitied me. He realized it too.

There was a momentary silence as he allowed me to reel in my emotions, watching every minute expression that flitted across my face. When I had sobered up sufficiently to maintain my composure, I looked up at him.

"So, now what?"

He continued to look at me, now more curious than concerned. "You don't want to talk about what just happened?"

I opened and closed my mouth. What? Talk about my problems? When had he ever wanted that?

"You seemed to be suffering from some sort of emotional breakdown," he began, but I held up a dirty, waifish hand.

"I know what's happening to me. I know what addiction does, and I know that this is normal. I'd rather cut the psychoanalysis and focus on the task at hand. In case you'd forgotten, you're planning to poison all the residents of Gotham very soon."

He looked bemused for a moment. "Interesting," he muttered, not quite to me but not quite to himself.

"What?" I inquired, somewhat annoyed now. Wasn't he supposed to be the criminal mastermind?

"Well," he began slowly, "it is interesting to me that you perceive addiction and a toxic, dependent relationship as 'normal.'"

"It's all that I have been exposed to since you brought me down here. It has become normal, for me."

"But it's altered your perception of what is defined as a 'normal' interaction versus the interaction between a hostage and her kidnapper. Very intruiguing."

"No, it hasn't," I countered, somewhat insulted. I used to be a psychology major; I was able to make distinctions between what I'm experiencing and what is truly normal. Since I understand my mind, I am able to rationalize it. Right?

"Okay," he said, realizing that he wasn't going to communicate properly whatever point it was he was attempting to make, "we need to get you cleaned up and ready."

He stood from his kneeling position in front of me, and I looked at my surrounding for the first time since I'd regained consciousness. The room was different; the lights were so bright because there was a window in this room, letting in the fading sunlight. The floor was tile, not stone, and it was furnished with very basic furniture; a bed, a desk, a chair. There was a door next to the window that was ajar, but I couldn't see to where it lead.

"Where are we?" I enquired to the back of his form, which was currently retreating into the unidentified room.

"We're in patients' quarters; you need a bath and food and I need to brief you on the goings-on of tomorrow evening," he called back. I heard the splash of running water, and my heart leapt.

He came back into the room, walking over to me and holding out his hand. I reached out, grasped it, and attempted to pull myself up. I managed to, but just barely; all my weight was against the wall behind me and I slouched against it.

He stepped back, and I made to move forward, but suddenly the ground was rushing back towards me and his arms wrapped around my torso, catching me before I hit the ground. I twisted in his arms to a standing position, but he put my arm across his shoulders and basically dragged me to the bath.

"Well I see you can't be left to this alone until I've made sure you won't crack your head on the ceramic," he murmured, holding me up by one shoulder like a petulant child with one hand while the other hand began unfastening the shapeless garment I was wearing. Once that was finished, he untied the elastic around my waist and let my bottoms fall to the floor. Taking great care not to drop me, he lifted my unclothed form into the steaming bath water. He stood awkwardly for a second, until he saw that I could keep my head up, and told me to call when I was finished.

The hot water felt like heaven on my skin, and I took my time scrubbing every inch of my body clean, until my skin shone and the water was an ugly grey. I noticed that my body was mostly angles now. I could count my ribs, and my hip bones stuck out on either side of my now slightly concave stomach. I thought I looked sickly.

My hair felt so much cleaner, and I reflected on how amazing the psychological effects of a bath are on a person. Soon, however, the room had darkened and the water began to grow cooler, and I started shivering.

"Jonathan, the water is cold," I said, finding my voice stronger than it had been in a long time. I heard the click of a door and the sound of footsteps, and then he entered the room. He looked at me and tsked, "You're shivering, and the water is filthy."

I bit my tongue to refrain from a retort as he grabbed a towel from a cupboard in the corner. He laid it on the edge of the now draining tub, and gripped me under both arms and lifted me into a standing position onto a towel he must had laid on the floor.

"Can you stand?" he asked. I nodded, and he let go of me to grab the towel and quickly wrap it around me. I began rubbing myself dry, and it didn't escape my notice the way his eyes raked up and down my barely-concealed form.

"You know, you look almost unrecognizable without all the blood and dirt," he said, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face. I looked down, a slight blush tinting my cheeks. When I looked up, his face was much closer than I remember it being, our lips only a breath apart. He closed the distance between us, his lips meeting mine in an almost tender kiss.

This turn of events completely disarmed me. This was such a far cry from the rough bruising force of the other time; it was almost too gentle, but I had little time to ponder that thought as his tongue gently requested access to my mouth. He explored almost expertly, and all thought processes went out the window as I melted into him. His arms snaked around my waist as he tasted the freshly clean skin of my throat, no longer purple and bruised. I sighed when his lips met mine again, and his hands move more heatedly across my toweled body. My hands moved around frantically for purchase, finding the sides of his button-up, gripping the fabric between my fingers as he deepened the kiss.

The towel pooled around my legs as he picked me up and moved into the other room, dropping me down on the bed, his body quickly following to settle on top of mine. My hands roved across his chest, finding the challenging string of buttons and beginning to undo them. As I fumbled with the last one, he pulled his shirt off, never breaking contact with my body. His mouth blazed a searing trail down my neck to my breasts. I moaned quietly, squirming under his ministrations. I tried to shut off the back part of my brain that was insistently trying to think, but I couldn't shake the feeling that this couldn't be real; it was too caring, too good to be true. I firmly stopped that line of thinking and let the bliss and sensation take over. My hands reached between our bodies and fumbled with his belt; his kisses were more insistent; I began to feel nips and bites instead of just soft lips. His hands pushed mine out of the way as he undid his belt and let his pants and underwear fall to the floor. He pushed my legs apart with his knee and entered me rather roughly; I was reeling from the contrast of sensation and my hands gripped his shoulders and I whimpered in pain. "Jonathan, please" I whispered, "you're hurting me."

His hands grabbed mine and pinned them above my head as he continued thrusting into me with the same force, an almost cruel smirk on his lips as they captured mine again to silence my pleas. I whimpered and tried to move away from the onslaught of sensation; it was too much and it hurt me much more than the first time had, surprisingly. I assume it was because I wasn't expecting it this time.

My pained whimpers turned into soft moans against his mouth as I grew used to the rough rhythm he'd fallen into, my hips rolling to meet his, learning to savor the pain again, remembering what it felt like, but it wasn't quite the same. The sensation built up in my core and with a loud moan my whole body tightened and convulsed beneath him as pleasure thrilled through my body, igniting my neglected nerves, travelling from head to toe. He rode me through my orgasm, his movements becoming more erratic until he thrust up hard into me, spilling himself inside me with a low growl of my name against my throat. He quickly rolled off of me and fell beside me, his chest moving evenly in the dim shadows of the now-dark room.

"It's late and you need to rest," he said, snaking an arm around me and pulling my body closer to his. I shuddered against his touch, fighting the urge to shy away. I turned so that I was no longer facing him, fresh, hot tears streaming down my cheeks.

Sure, the sex had felt good, but there was something missing there, something deeper that was lost between the foreplay and the actual act. There was no emotion at all in what had just happened; it had been a detached, unemotional fuck. At least with the first time, there was anger, intensity, _something _to fill that now gaping hole inside of my chest, to make me feel complete for at least a few minutes so I wouldn't have to feel so numb anymore. With this, it was so much worse.

His soft caresses and kisses had lulled me into a sense of actual happiness; I had meant something to him; I wasn't just a test subject or a sex toy; I was a woman beneath him, sharing in the sensations, the pleasure. It sounds so damn womanly of me, but I thought he felt something.

And then we started having sex and it was like I was just another meaningless plaything to him. I had known it all along, somewhere deep down inside, but the fool in my head had actually dared to hope beyond hope that he felt anything other than detached curiosity or lust when he looked at me. I feel used, more empty than I had ever felt after the effects of the toxin wore off, no matter how large the dosage.

I was hurt, and it shocked me when I realized that I needed this contact from him, no matter how terrible I felt afterwards; it was still something, ANYTHING to stave off the terrible nothingness I felt eating away at my sanity day after day. I not only need him, but I want him too. No matter now used to useless I feel when I'm with him; I want him too. I want his eyes on me, his presence near me, his hands on me. Anything.

And as I sank into fitful slumber, tears still seeped from behind my eyelids and that little fool inside me still kept hoping.

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><p><strong>There you have it. One of the last installments of this twisted saga of poor Juliette. <strong>

**And I actually updated in a reasonable amount of time!**

**Thanks for sticking with this, and welcome any new readers! Reviews are much appreciated; I can't get better if you don't tell me how I'm doing! Also, suggestions are welcome; I take everything into account!**

**Thanks to **deadselly, itspeanutbutterjellytimex3, Destiny Xavier16, The Cuckoo Queen, **and **meredithriddle **for reviews. 3**


	10. Desperation, Resignation

In the morning, I awoke with half-blurred memories of my night with Jonathan. My eyes burned with shed tears, and the skin of my cheeks was tight with their dried saline paths that meandered down my face. I must look a mess even though I had just bathed. With a rush of hot shame, I realized the bed was cold and empty beside me. More embarrassing was my belief that it would have been anything but.

Wherever that silly, idealistic, childish love thinking had come from last night was evaporated by the harsh light streaming in from the window beside the cot.

I sat up, self-consciously pulling the sheet around me. Was I really going to go through with this? Hell, I've already lost the bit of life I may have had, and the rest looked bleak as it is, so why not? I have nothing to lose.

The gravity of this statement hit me full force while I stood at the cracked mirror above the sink in the bathroom, pulling my fingers through my tangled tresses. My eyes, dead, glazed, and dulled, stared back at me from a gaunt, pale face. I looked pretty in a fatal way, the way we see death as something beautiful.

I turned from my hopeless reflection in the mirror, looking for something to wear, feeling the faint itch at the edge of my mind, that darker place, coming to numb everything. I needed a hit of Thrill, of the toxin, of heroin, of anything. I frowned at myself in disgust. Was I really so desperate that I would sink to the depths of a common street junkie?

I laughed derisively. Who was I kidding; I was a common street junkie, I was just more than figuratively tied to my dealer.

The sound of a cleared throat shook me out of my reverie, and I jumped around.

"You know, laughing to oneself is a sign of insanity," said his voice, always so calm, so clinical.

"So is wearing a mask and poisoning a city," I muttered, eyes downcast. Anywhere but his face. I could maintain my resolve that way.

I didn't need to look at him to know his expression darkened. "What was that?"

I didn't respond. "Where are my clothes? I can't go to this thing in a sheet."

I heard him move around the room. I raised my eyes to the wood of the archway between the bathroom and the room in which he was standing. The white paint was yellowed in the corners; some peeling off the also-white wall.

I heard his footsteps come closer. I knew I was being juvenile, but my pride had left long ago. My eyes remained glued to the peeling paint.

"Look at me," he demanded softly. His dealing-with-patients voice.

I shook my head. "Why should I when you never look at me?"

A strong hand grasped my chin and angled my face roughly downwards until I was forced to look him in the face. I flinched at the rough treatment; my body was still slightly sore. "Since when do you get to demand fair treatment, you selfish little bitch?" he rasped, and suddenly I was nervous.

Scarecrow hadn't made an appearance in awhile, and as if on cue, a dull throbbing started at the back of my head, reminiscent of how it felt when he threw me against more walls than I care to remember. I didn't resist; I was tired. I didn't want to do this anymore. I didn't know if I would be strong enough to go through with the gala itself, and the repercussions of my performance at that would not need any further reinforcement now.

I lowered my eyes. "I just want some clothes," I said softly, trying to appeal to Scarecrow's desire for submission.

"I said look at me, bitch!" he growled, striking me hard across the face. I fell back onto the sink, cracking my head on the porcelain. The world danced. I lost which way "up" was, and slid onto the cold tiled floor.

I raised my hand to my face. Wet. My nose throbbed; had he broken it? I pinched the bridge, preparing myself for the pain that didn't come. Of course he hadn't broken it; he was smarter than that, even though this was Scarecrow.

The tile looked so inviting. I crumpled into a defeated heap on the floor, letting the blood from my nose drip onto the white floor.

"Juliette?" He knelt down beside me, pulling my head up and turning it from side to side, assessing the damage his counterpart had inflicted upon me.

"I swear I didn't do anything, he just hit me," I protested weakly.

He tsked. "Now, Scarecrow doesn't strike unprovoked and you know that. This evening, you need to be strong enough to attend this gala with me. All of my work rests on this night. It needs to be everything we want. You need to understand the importance of this. It is essential before we go into detail."

I blinked, clearing my eyes and my mind of the fuzziness from the sudden change in position. "If it's so important, why leave me with all of this responsibility? Wouldn't you rather entrust this with someone you find more reliable?"

He smiled cruelly. "Why, Juliette, you are the most reliable person I have. You wouldn't dare throw a wrench in my plans because you would then have nowhere to go, no one who understands you. You'd be lost, and worse, you'd be left alone with yourself," he explained condescendingly.

Hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes. This was my reality, and no matter how much I tried to hide from it, it was there. Always. Everywhere. In the strawberry gashes all over my arms, in my glazed eyes, in the numbness, in that dark place, in the needles, in his touches, his eyes, his lies. This is what I was. And I fucking hated it.

"Why even bother with doing this? Was it fun to break me this way? To play with me, my emotions, fuck me and then act like you never met me, to hit me and expect me to come crawling back – no – to make me come crawling back to you like some trashy addict from the Narrows?" I sat up, backing away from him until I felt the porcelain of the sink behind me. That dark place was coming to the forefront, and even though it scared me, I liked it. I felt it. I felt the fear and the darkness, cold and dangerous and toxic, threatening to boil over.

Jonathan's eyes darkened, and I didn't know who it was in those eyes and I didn't care. I slowly stood up. "You know, Jonathan, what you said may be true, but that doesn't mean I have to do whatever you say. I'm fucking tired of this, of having to figure out who I'm dealing with, of when or if you'll even look at me, if you'll hit me or kiss me, if you'll kill me or fuck me!" I said, raising my voice. Jonathan looked at me dangerously.

"This is ridiculous, and I don't fucking know what I'm supposed to do about it! I hate you and I hate this!"

He rose and stepped towards me, his graceful gait reminiscent of a tiger slinking towards the cornered prey. "Are you sure, sweetheart, that you hate us, or do you hate yourself?" He laughed cruelly and brought his hands to my throat. My eyes widened in alarm when they tightened. Were my feet touching the floor? I flailed, my hands grasping his, scratching at them, trying to pry them away from my crushed throat. He got closer to me.

"Yeah," he cooed in my ear, "I think it's you who you hate. You don't hate me or Johnny or the drug or anything like that. We think you hate yourself because you love us. You love this, love it when I hurt you, love it when I fuck you, love when I ignore you. You're a useless excuse for a human being and you don't even know it because you're too fucking weak to realize it."

His grip loosened, and I sunk back against the sink. Tears ran from my eyes. He looked at me with a mixture of amusement and disgust. I didn't even feel the hit this time; I blinked and I was on the floor, my lip split open, blood seeping from between my teeth. A blow came to my stomach; he'd kicked me while I lay there on the ground, my breath knocked out of me.

"Pathetic," he spat, and I honestly did not know who it was that said that, but I knew we all believed it.

His footsteps left the room, which now spun before my eyes. Black danced on the edges of my vision, and my last thought before losing consciousness was _you ARE pathetic._

~o~o~

I was awakened by cold water on my face. I gasped, spitting it out of my mouth, flailing slightly. I thought I was being drowned, but when I regained control of myself, I realized it was Jonathan attempting to wake me up.

I felt terrible. My stomach ached, I was wheezing through what felt like a throat filled with broken glass. I felt something hard caked on my nose and upper lip, and my lower lip was swollen and throbbing and painful. When he came into focus, I shrunk away from his hands like a wounded bird.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely registered even by my own ears. I don't know whether or not he heard me; he didn't react either way.

"You need to clean yourself up. The gala is in a few hours and I can't have you looking like you just stepped out of a boxing ring."

I looked up at him, hurt. It wasn't my fault I looked like this, right?

As if he had heard my thoughts, he continued, "You know, you do this to yourself. I don't know what to do with you sometimes. It's like you want us to hurt you."

The tattered remains of the rational part of my mind registered that he was becoming increasingly more unstable, referring to his alter and himself as "we," switching in and out of personalities more frequently and more often. I wondered what caused this, and whether or not this meant more beatings for me. I'll have to watch my step from now on. Be more careful so I don't make him hurt me any more than he has been.

"What am I going to do exactly at the party?" I asked, my voice still raspy. I coughed painfully.

"I'm going to need you to carry some canisters of the new toxin in the bag you will bring with you. When everyone has arrived, I will tell you to go get drinks. You will give the canisters to my associate, who you will have already met, and he will release them. You will then put on the gas mask I give you after five minutes. If you decide not to run, you will meet me here, in my office where you used to work. Do you understand," he asked me, as though speaking to a child.

I nodded.

"And," he continued, "if for some reason you're feeling particularly dutiful as a citizen of Gotham and think it wise to try and alert the police of our plan, you _will_ regret it."

The flicker of evil in his eyes was enough to make me believe he meant that threat sincerely.

"Now, your clothes are in the other room, along with some food and water. The tub is filled with hot water. Bathe, get dressed, eat, and I will be back to pick you up and take you to the gala."

He stood and turned to walk away, but seemed to realize something and turned back. With the devilish smile that only Scarecrow could muster, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a needle. I rose up onto my knees like some miserable creature at the sight, my mood soaring, forgetting the pain.

"I almost forgot, druggie Jules needs her little fix," he laughed, throwing the needle at me. I jumped to catch it, to make sure it didn't break on the floor. I lowered myself carefully into the tub, the water burning my skin slightly. I grabbed the needle, caught the cap in my teeth, released it, and plunged it into my forearm. Instantly, I felt adrenaline course through my veins. My vision blurred at the edges; it was hard to think with any lucidity. All of it, the pain, the shame, the numbness, the _nothing_ all dissolved into the dark, reassuring blanket of the fear.

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><p><strong>So here's the longest author's note I will probably make. Thank you to all of those people who continue to put up with my terrible update schedule (which is actually nonexistent). Thank you to all the reviewers; I love you all very deeply.<strong>

In As Much**, thanks again for reviewing. It's rare to receive such honest feedback and I need that refreshing kick of concrit every once in awhile; it improves my style as a writer, not that I'm looking to write my masterpiece on this site or anything; but your criticism is good in that it also gives me general advice. ****I'm not sure if my intent was clear in the last chapter. I meant for the sex to be Crane's realization of the OC's extent to which she's fallen prey to Stockholm or whatever other things she's dealing with at the moment, and his capitalizing on her vulnerability. Often, captors show victims kindnesses in order to win their favor so they will be more compliant. ****Also, I was hoping to express some sort of imbalance in the OC that wasn't just her situation; the situation was merely her trigger for these other, more repressed disturbances to come to light. **

meredithriddle**, while a chapter from Crane's POV would be interesting, I don't often switch perspectives, but I think it might be appropriate in the upcoming chapter, since it is more his event than hers'. **

**Please give me your feedback and your opinions; I take every one seriously. Also, if any of you have any ideas for stories you'd like to see, whether it's in the Batman verse, or another verse, drop me a message or review. Since this is coming to an end, I'd like to do some one-shots (my specialty) and am coming up dry on ideas. So whether it's a lemon, slash, a tragedy/crime drama, or a songfic, whatever, please drop me a message! **


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